when she didn’t know the answer to that herself.
‘Saba’a alkair, Rosalie.’ His face was gravely courteous as he inclined his head, his voice the deeply seductive tone she remembered from her dream. She shivered.
‘Saba’a alkair.’
‘Your pronunciation is excellent.’
‘Thank you.’ No need to tell him she’d learned her few words of Arabic from her brother-in-law, another local and a man of immense patience with her faltering efforts.
‘You slept well?’ His scrutiny was intense, sweeping over her like a touch, so the blood heated beneath her skin.
‘Thank you, I did,’ she lied. ‘Only one horse today?’ She was eager to change the subject.
He shrugged, drawing her attention once more to the spare power of his torso. She wished she could look away.
‘I thought one would be enough for your purposes. But if you want—’
‘No, no. That’s fine.’ It was the magic between rider and mount that she wanted to capture. She turned away, as if to busy herself with her gear, but a sudden movement made her turn back. It was him, Arik, swinging his leg over the horse and dismounting.
‘What are you doing?’ The words were out before she could stop them. She heard her squeak of horror echo even now as the silence reverberated between them.
His eyebrows tilted up as he looped the reins in his hand. ‘I thought that was obvious,’ he said and took a single long step closer.
Rosalie had thought him impressive on horseback, imposing enough to dominate any scene. But that was before he stood close to her, enveloping her with his air of restrained power. She felt his heat, detected again his spicy natural scent, and more. As she angled her chin up to meet his eyes, she experienced something else, something primal and powerful, a spell that kept her rooted to the spot. She watched him with widening eyes as her pulse thudded a quickening tattoo.
This close she could see his skin gleamed with health, his mouth was slightly crooked; when he smiled it curved up more on the left. And his eyes—she couldn’t believe it! Even from less than a metre away, they were black as night, gleaming with humour as she struggled to find her composure.
‘It’s traditional here to seal a bargain with a gesture of trust,’ he murmured, ‘and our agreement is important to me.’
The flutter of panic in her stomach transformed into an earth tremor of mixed horror and anticipation as he leaned closer. He couldn’t mean to—
Strong fingers closed around her right hand, she felt the scrape of calluses as he cradled it in his, then he firmed his grip.
‘We always shake hands on a deal here, Rosalie.’ His words were low, soft, making her lean even closer to hear.
His gaze, dark and unfathomable, held hers and she felt a sensation of weightlessness. For a long moment the illusion held as she stood, enthralled by the heat and promise in his eyes.
Then common sense reasserted itself. She straightened her spine. ‘Of course.’ She nodded, hoping to seem businesslike. Just a handshake. She could cope with that.
But, even as she reassured herself, he lifted her hand in his, held it just below his lips so she felt the rhythm of his breath hot on her skin. She blinked.
‘But with a lady, a handshake is not enough.’
Was that glitter in his gaze laughter or something else?
No, it wasn’t laughter. She just had time to realise it was something more dangerous when his mouth brushed her skin. The kiss was warm, soft and seductive. Her breath hitched as their gazes locked. His eyes were pure black. Black as night, dark as desire. Inviting, beckoning. A blaze of flame licked through her abdomen, igniting a flare that grew and spread like fire in her bloodstream.
She shuddered as his lips caressed her skin, pressing more firmly and somehow, impossibly, finding an erogenous zone on the back of her hand. Her chest heaved as she gasped for oxygen. He paused so long that she felt warm air feather across her skin as he exhaled once, twice, three times.
At last he lifted his head, but the stark hunger in his face made her want to turn tail and run back the way she’d come.
Chapter Three
NOW he knew. Her skin tasted sweetly addictive, its texture as smooth as cream against his lips. He wanted to bend his head again and lick her hand, turn it over and lave her palm, drawing her flavour, rich as wild honey, into his mouth.
He wanted to set his tongue against the frenetic pulse he felt fluttering at her delicate wrist, kiss her arm, her sensitive inner elbow, take his time in working his way to her collarbone, her throat, awash now with a tide of rose-pink. Then her lips.
His hand tightened around hers as his gaze dropped to her mouth, a perfect Cupid’s bow of feminine invitation. Her lips parted just a fraction, as if in unconscious invitation, and the storm of longing notched up inside him.
Never had he experienced need so instantaneous, obliterating all else. It was like a roaring, racing conflagration swirling almost out of control.
And all he’d done was kiss her hand! Even the scent of her, like the perfume of dew on rosebuds, was enough to test his self-possession.
His heart pounded against his ribs, adrenaline surged in his bloodstream, inciting action. His every sense clamoured for fulfilment. Here. Now. On the hard-packed sand where the sun’s early rays would light her body to gold and amber for his delectation.
He snagged one rough breath. Watched her eyes widen and realised his grip had firmed too much. Another breath and he loosened his hold, still unwilling to relinquish her hand.
But she tugged it away, slipped her fingers from his and cradled them with her other hand between her breasts. The unthinking gesture pulled the soft cotton of her shirt tight and his breath seized in his lungs as he eyed the outline of her bra.
‘A handshake would have done,’ she whispered, her voice shaky.
Arik almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She was chastising him for being too forward in kissing her hand. How would she react if she knew he was hard with need for her? That just the sight of her plain bra beneath that prudish high-buttoned shirt and the taste of her against his lips made him hot with desire?
But his laughter fled as he looked in her eyes and saw the confusion there. Confusion and…trepidation?
She was scared of him, his golden girl?
Instantly he took a half pace backwards, watching the way her dilated eyes seemed to focus somewhere near his chin as her breathing slowly evened out.
She looked as if no man had ever kissed her hand. More, as if the dance of desire between the sexes was something new to her.
Impossible. Surely in Australia men were men enough to pursue a beauty as delicate and enticing as this one. It still amazed him that she was alone, no male hovering close to guard against intruders.
‘I see our customs are different to what you are used to. I meant no offence.’
He wondered if she’d be satisfied with that explanation. Surely even an innocent would realise that a formal kiss on the fingers was completely different from the sensuous introduction they’d just experienced. Or maybe she’d ignore the fact, pretend it hadn’t happened.
She nodded, turned her head away to stare at the glow of light on the horizon. ‘Of course. I understand.’
He was right—she was avoiding the truth.
But he’d achieved his aim. She was aware of him now. Not just as a distant figure on horseback to be captured in paints, but as a man. Flesh and blood. Her agitated breathing, the quick sidelong glance at him, the way she bit down on the corner of her mouth, all affirmed it.